


Family

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars), Time Period: 2006-present (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-06
Updated: 2008-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: In a way, we all fear our family.Spoilers:for 2.08





	Family

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Um, AU, because we all love a bit of psycho!Sam. Or, at least, I do.

When I was fourteen, I killed my first man. I would like to say it was an accident. But it wasn't. I would like to say that I didn't know what I was doing, but I did. I squeezed the trigger and Slow Eddie's head burst like a melon, blood and brains erupting everywhere. His wide, frightened eyes dissolved in a haze of crimson droplets. The man that stood behind him froze, eyes narrowing. I pointed the gun at his head and remarked in a casual tone, “Hello, father."

 

 

This was the culmination of ten years' work. Ever since my father left me alone with my well-meaning but cloying mother, I had vowed that I would find him. And here he was, down one right-hand man and in my sights at last. What had impressed me about him was his total dedication to his work. What really didn't impress me was the look of naked fear on his face.

 

 

Even now, twenty years later, that fear was there. Overlaid with pride and healthy respect, sure, but deep in those eyes the spectre still lurked. Twenty years had passed since I had walked into the warehouse in a remote town on the East Coast and instantly promoted myself into the ‘Morton Brothers' ranks. It was more than fifteen since I was recognised as the other half of the partnership and heir apparent to the entire empire. On the other side, it was eighteen years since I'd graduated onto the force and five since I had been promoted to DCI. 

 

 

Life had been busy. But there was still much more to do. Vic, my father, seemed to be slowing down and had made mistakes. My position was precarious and therefore, in the interests of self-preservation, I had to act.

 

 

My father was right to fear me after all.

* * * * *

It had been twenty-three years since I killed my first man and two since I killed my father. In the intervening years there had been other kills. Not too many, I couldn't risk my useful cover in the police force, but there were enough that I could safely say I was used to it. However this was different. This was my first police officer. It wasn't my first woman, but it was the first lover I had had to kill.

 

 

What made it easy was that she didn't believe it. She didn't believe any of the words she was saying. Her accusations had little evidence, although I was sure that it would be possible for her to get it, but she hadn't looked. Intellectually I was as guilty as sin, emotionally I had to be innocent. I was obviously a victim of circumstance, perhaps falling in with a bad crowd or really pissing someone off. Either way, Maya had enough loyalty to confront me about the accusations before mentioning it to anyone at the station.

 

 

That, in the end, is what killed her. Curiosity may have killed the cat but honesty and integrity gets more people killed each day.

 

 

I slit her throat with the kitchen knife I had taken from the block when she opened the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of wine. The wine bottle crashed to the floor, throwing shards of glass across the floor. The arterial spray hit the extraction hood on the cooker and the splash of the blood hitting the floor was the only sound in that kitchen for several minutes afterwards. The blood pooled from the gaping grin in her neck under the kitchen table and mingled with the white wine in front of the refrigerator. Red and white, like the rose petals in one of the old fairy stories my aunt read to me whenever I was ill.

 

 

Her dead staring eyes still reflected her final fear.

* * * * *

The truth will out, it seems. After wanting to get back home for so long, it's strange to think that my oh-so-perfect life is more than a metaphysical step away. It's a conundrum wrapped in an enigma that more than one reality can superimpose on itself. Get to three, and counting, and life begins to get really complicated.

 

 

Take 1973 for example. Here I was, playing the straight and narrow. The darkness was held within, sleeping, and taking with it those memories that were less than salubrious. It was an easy role to play, after all I'd been doing so for all my adult life. Even when those memories resurfaced, one-by-one and two-by-two, I could keep smiling in the knowledge that no-one could reach me here. 

 

 

But pride comes before a fall and a stitch in time saves nine. I'd never even bought a needle and thread.

 

 

So here I am now, hidden behind a crate in a large warehouse, watching Morgan tear down my world, word by word. Gene doesn't believe a word of it, but I just know that Morgan has the evidence. He has to, if he's able to be here, now, to rip down my hiding place and drag me kicking and screaming into the light.

 

 

Time is ticking away. A choice is to be made. Stay here, risking my life and liberty to a bond of trust that is strained at best, a phantom at worst. Or go? Put myself into the hands into modern policing with their DNA analysis, fibre databases, gas chromatographs. How much do they actually know?

 

 

Who do I trust more?

 

 

I pull out my gun, aim, and fire.

 

 

_fin_


End file.
